Second Mom
by Simon920
Summary: Robin  Dick Grayson  has managed to attract yet another kook-a-dook.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

**Second Mom**

Sharon Kasem turned the key in the lock, her front door opening easily, the lamp on the hallway table already on, the cat circling around her legs and welcoming her home as she put her purse and briefcase on the chair.

"I know, you want your dinner, don't you? Y'know what, so do I. What are we in the mood for tonight, hmm? Come on." It had been a long day, in the office by eight, too busy with that new account to have a real lunch and then having to work later than usual because of that idiot intern screwing up the numbers which had to be in first thing tomorrow. "Here you are; 'that's good, isn't it?" Misty the cat had her face in her bowl, oblivious to anything other than her can of tuna.

There wasn't anything in the fridge worth eating, nothing in the freezer worth nuking. She was tired and hungry and, oh, what the hell—she pulled out the menu from her favorite Chinese place. An order of lemon chicken with bean sprouts, a spring roll and maybe a side of lo mein would do her just fine and had the advantage of guaranteed delivery inside of twenty minutes.

"That's done, I'm just going to get out of these heels and change, Mist—I'll be right back." Misty seemed fine with that, not bothering to pause her dinner to look up.

Five minutes later Sharon was back downstairs leafing through today's stack of mail. There were the usual catalogs, a few magazines and bills, a postcard from her brother traveling in Germany for some client and a manilla 8 X 10 envelope which she saved for last. She smiled to herself; it was finally here. Carefully opening the top she pulled out the cover letter and color photograph, autograph across the bottom;

'Best wishes, Robin'. It wasn't really signed 'Robin', it was just a scrawled 'R' in a hand drawn circle written with a black sharpie and she suspected that he'd never been anywhere near the thing himself but didn't really care. The picture was a really good one, an action shot of him throwing some kind of judo kick or something with the light and shadows highlighting the angles of his leg muscles, in his face and bringing out the amazing color of his eyes. They might be contacts but she doubted it; that color was real, it had to be and just another reason he was—unique.

Sharon picked up the cat, stroking the soft fur and happy when she felt the vibration in the small body as she started purring. "I'm not a pedophile, Mist. I know how young he is—I just like to look at him, like a Greek sculpture or something. It's esthetic." She saw the way he was changing, maturing and wondered again just how old he really was. Sixteen? Seventeen? Something like that. "Mostly esthetic."

She didn't tell anyone about writing to him and even felt sort of dumb for doing it but that didn't stop her. So what if she was forty-six years old and he was in high school? No one had to know that she bought every magazine with him on the cover or a blurb saying there was an article about him inside. She cruised Amazon for any new books about him and had three shelves full in one of the bookcases down in the basement.

"So what? Lots of people have crushes on Johnny Depp or Superman, right? It's not like I'm stalking him or anything or think anything will ever come out of it. I know I'll never meet him and if I ever did he wouldn't give me a second look so no harm done." Changed into her robe and slippers she waited for her food, the TV in the background. "Harmless hobbies, everyone needs one." She scratched Misty's ears, putting her down on the floor when she heard the doorbell with her food. She paid the deliveryman, smiled as he left and thought how nice it would be if Robin was there sharing her meal and wondering what his favorites were. "Probably something healthy." She smiled to herself. "Or junk food. 'Teenagers..."

"Ms. Kasem, is it all right if I give you those numbers after lunch? My parents are in town and I promised them that I'd..."

"I need those numbers before my meeting at one. I believe that I told you that yesterday."

"Well, yes ma'am, you did but I just found out that they'll only be here between planes and I was hoping that just this once, maybe I could...I haven't seen them since Christmas."

"I need those numbers by one. You may go to lunch now and then to an employment agency or you can stay and finish what I've asked you to do. Your choice."

"Yes Ma'am, I, um, I understand. You'll have that information before one."

"Thank you." And she didn't care about the face the intern made on his way out. Work was work, if it was too hard for him, he could find another job. Turning to her laptop, her personal one, she opened the file containing her journal and began typing.

Three months went by, Sharon finally was given that promotion to Senior Vice President in Charge of New Accounts with a substantial raise and added benefits. She celebrated by placing an advance order on Amazon for that new unauthorized biography about Robin which was supposed to be coming out next month.

His birthday was in the spring, or was it fall? There were conflicting thoughts about that but she liked to think that his birthday was spring. It just seemed right to her; spring was rebirth, light colors, happiness and Easter eggs. Fall was dying leaves and waiting for cold weather. Definitely, he should be a spring birthday and he should have a birthday present. Oh, of course she knew that whatever she sent would end up in some pile and he'd probably never see it but, well, still...

He looked like he was losing weight, she's bake some cookies and send them. Every teenager liked cookies, right? That's what she'd do and just hope he'd see them. Even if he didn't eat them at least he'd know someone was thinking about him, that someone out there cared.

She kicked herself—"Of course someone cares about him. Of_ course _they did. He has to have parents and maybe some brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and lots of cousins who all gather at the grandparent's house for Thanksgiving and Christmas."

She took her usual sleeping pill ('With everything I have to worry about? My brain never wants to turn off...') fell asleep with the cookbook still opened beside her and dreamed about Robin's Christmas. The house looked like the set of the Walton's house on TV with stockings hanging up on the fireplace, roast turkey in the oven, fireplace crackling with a warm glow and his grandfather was Will Geer.

The next day, a Saturday, she baked four dozen chocolate chip cookies and mailed them to 'Robin, c/o Gotham Police Headquarters'. He might not ever see them, but she'd know she'd given him something and that was good enough for now.

Later, around five or so she started to get ready for her dinner date. Randy was supposed to pick her up, take her out to a nice meal and then they were going to see a show.

Randy.

Reliable, steady, true-blue Randy. Boring Randy. For a while she'd thought that he was better than nothing but she was changing her mind. He was placid, didn't have an original thought in his head, not a single opinion about anything and she was starting to dread his phone calls.

He was a nice guy, doted on her and did whatever she wanted without complaint. He was just so... This would be it. She'd break it off tonight.

Or tomorrow.

"Hey, Shar, how'd the date go?"

"It was okay."

"Just okay?"

She smiled, Jean knew Randy. "It started at okay, went south to 'shoot me' then hit the depths of 'I'd rather be eating moldy cheese than talk to this moron for three more minutes'.

"Damn, girl, we have to find you a human being to go out with."

"It would make a nice change. Later, okay? I have to get this done."

When Jean closed her door Sharon pulled out the latest edition of Superheroes Weekly. The lead story was speculating that Robin should be about to graduate high school and wondering what he'd do now; college? Work for the police or Interpol or something full time? There were five pages of color pictures, most of them never published before and a candid taken in some gym with the boy wearing just a pair of gym shorts and his mask, towel casually tossed over his shoulder and caught mid-laugh.

She stared at his chest and the muscles in his arms, God, he was perfect. If she'd ever had a son, this was what he'd be; handsome, intelligent, caring, generous and—most of all—unaware of just how unique he really was.

She'd been writing more in her journal about Robin, not even realizing how many entries were about him until she'd reread a few pages the other day. Smiling to herself she shrugged, what did it matter? People wrote about their hobbies, their pets, their gardens and the baby's newest case of colic.

Same thing.

A few months went by, Sharon was setting records in her new position as VP and earning a hell of a yearly bonus which she was probably just going to stick in some kind of Treasury Bond or something.

"You're crazy, you should take that cruise with me over the holidays, it's not even that much money and we'd get out of this stupid cold weather for a couple of weeks and you can take a break from your eighty hour weeks."

"'Can't."

"Because you have to feed your cat? Seriously, that's what neighborhood kids are for." Sighing in frustration, Jane knew a lost cause when she saw it. "Okay, fine. Are you still seeing Randy?"

"No, 'told him I didn't think that we have enough in common and we broke it off."

"That was tactful."

"No reason to string him along."

"I guess. So, seeing anyone new?"

"With all my spare time?"

"Well, when you free up a little, I know a guy I think you'd like. Seriously and don't look at me like that. Smart, has his own money, no major baggage, sane; he's a nice guy."

Sharon nodded, uh-huh. "If he's so great why don't you go out with him?"

"I did, last year and no chemistry but I think you two might connect. Should I tell him to give you a call?"

If she said no Jean wouldn't drop it, ever. Forcing a smile, "Sure, why not?"

"Great! His name is Larry and he's dying to meet you."

"No doubt, what does he look like?"

Jean googled him on Sharon's computer. Black hair, blue eyes, nice build, maybe forty-five or so. Her first thought was that he could be Robin's father. "Fine, whatever. Maybe after Christmas."

"You're on."

Sharon couldn't help it, it was just so—it was so cute and the way they'd sculpted his thighs (she blushed to herself). She wasn't even supposed to be here, she never came to the mall, hated the mall and avoided it every chance she got. If she hadn't needed a new pair of red pumps to go with her new dress for tonight's dinner with the exalted Larry she wouldn't be here and there it was, just _staring_ at her from the shop window. She was a little embarrassed to go into the store, but what the hell; it wasn't like she'd ever see the clerk again.

"Excuse me, may I pay for this?"

"Yuh, sure. Cash or charge?" The kid behind the counter looked like he was about thirteen.

"MasterCard and do you gift wrap?"

"Uh, no but, I dunno, maybe that Hallmark store over there...? 'Present, huh?"

"A birthday present for my nephew, yes. Thank you." The transaction finished, the screen signed and the item bagged she had her impulse purchase.

"Thanks, have a nice day."

"You too."

Getting home she dropped the bag with the new shoes on the table then took the other box out of it's plastic shopping bag.

Perfect, it was perfect.

It was a new action figure of Robin (a percentage of the proceeds to go to charity). Every detail was exactly right down to the green boots and fabric cape but, most of all, the detirmined expression on his face. He was just so—oh, he was just so ready for _any_thing. Taking him out of the box, she debated where...there, right on top of the bookcase in her den, right next to her computer.

Right where she could see him.

The arranged date with Larry was a stroll through hell, ending in silence when he asked her if she was interested in joining him that weekend at his favorite nudist camp for a picnic.

Christ—most men lived under rocks.

Almost a year went by, Sharon's infatuation with Robin grew until she moved the three shelves worth of books about him she'd collected into her bedroom to from the basement den, glad that no one would have any reason to see them. She wasn't at all ashamed, she was just private and, well, it wasn't anybody's business.

It was a lazy Sunday morning, she was having a leisurely breakfast, waiting or the sleeping pill haze to fade and going through the paper when she saw the ad in the Entertainment section. There was going to be a benefit in Denver to raise money for the US Olympic team, a whole bunch of team hopefuls would be performing at a gymnastics exhibition and, as a special attraction, Robin had agreed to throw a few routines. Tickets ranged from twenty-five to two hundred dollars will all profits going to scholarships for needy and deserving athletes.

Picking up her cell phone on impulse before she had a chance to talk herself out of it, she ordered a two hundred dollar ticket, paying an extra five hundred dollar premium for admission to an after performance dinner with the athletes, including Robin. Booking a flight and hotel, she decided to take some personal days and make a real trip of it. She'd get there a day or two early, see some of the sights, get some shopping in and have some fun.

She didn't tell anyone why she was going to Denver aside from mentioning doing some skiing and maybe visiting a cousin she hadn't seen in a while.

And she wasn't _stalking _the boy. She knew nothing would happen beyond the most superficial kind of exchange. She didn't have any fantasies about their eyes meeting across a crowded room and sparks flying—she really didn't.

Honestly.

It was like people who 'love' Michael Jackson or Tom Cruise or maybe even someone like Stephen Sondheim. Aside from the nutcases no one really believed that anything would ever happen between them any more than the girls who screamed when they saw Robert Pattinson at a film premier really thought so.

"Well, sure, of course he's handsome and he's smart and he's accomplished but _seriously_, he's thirty years younger and that's not what this is about. I admire him for lots of reasons but I'm not in_ love _with him."

And she was telling the truth. If anything, her feelings edged into the _maternal_. Mostly.

"It's just that he's so much _better_ than the men I deal with in my real life." She spent most of her flight to Denver thinking about it. "If I ever met him, ever spent any time with him I'd find out that he's not that great in person. Maybe he has BO or burps or is an ass to women. Maybe he's arrogant or rude and just has a good PR team keeping it hidden." She sipped the vodka and tonic the attendant had brought her and smiled to herself. "But the part we're allowed to see? Incredible."

She looked out the small window to hide her blush. "God, I sound like a teenager." He was a fantasy figure to her, he was a _crush _and it was completely harmless. If she got pleasure from it, where was the harm in that?

She arrived at Stapleton Airport five hours late, the delay caused by weather and then had to share a cab to her hotel, the Brown Palace. The hotel was a splurge, expensive, exclusive and a present to herself—the whole trip was a treat so she wasn't about to skimp on a room; sharing the cab was bad enough. Her suite, once she was installed there, was impressive, decorated in slightly overdone chintz but fully equipped and fancy enough to make her smile.

She had over twenty-four hours until the exhibition, tomorrow at seven-thirty in the Pepsi Arena, home to the Denver Nuggets, Colorado Avalanche, Colorado Crush and the Colorado Mammoth**. ****But tomorrow it would host the best gymnasts in the country and Robin, ****_her_**** Robin was there as the main attraction.**

**She made the duty call to her cousin, feigning disappointment when they were unable to meet up; thank god she got out of that. On her own, she spent the rest of the day at the art museum and doing a little shopping, pretending that Robin would be meeting her for dinner and an long, private evening. Finding a perfect silk wisp of a nightgown with matching robe (to cover her upper arms, not quite as firm as they used to be) she went back to a room service dinner and a new stack of gossip mags featuring Robin.**

**Sleeping in til almost nine the next morning, she set out for the massage, hair and make up appointments for the rest of the day, allowing herself plenty of time to get ready. Oh sure, she could just ****go casual (and her outfit was simple enough) but in for a penny, in for a pound, right? If you're going to do something, do it right. Go big or go home.**

**So what if no one would know besides her? This was her time and she was going to milk it for all it ****was worth.**

**Finally, finally it was time to go. Her hair was done—casual but just right. Her makeup was there enough so that she looked her absolute best but not enough so that she looked desperate and her clothes were a nice (but not absolutely new and stiff) pair of perfectly fitting jeans and a simple cashmere sweater the exact color to bring out her eyes. Her jewelry was classic Tiffany—in good taste but with enough pizazz to highlight her overall look.**

**Taking a cab to the arena, she found her seat easily; front row on the side so that she could see all the various apparatus with an unobstructed view and close enough to where the athletes sat between their routines that she could practically reach over the railing and shake their hands if she wanted to. **

**The place was crowded, the seats almost all sold and the noise, the buzz from the crowd was growing along with the anticipation. Yes, of course, a large percentage of the crowd was about thirteen years old and wearing team uniforms from local gymnastics clubs, carrying teddy bears and flowers to be tossed after particularly good routines. They carried hand painted signs to be waved at their favorites and she was secretly pleased to see that her Robin seemed to have the most, the biggest and the brightest signs.**

**Of course he was the favorite. He had the highest profile, the most press, and well, was simply the best; more well rounded than any of the others, more interesting and would be famous and working years—decades—after the rest were retired and selling insurance in Kansas.**

The crowd was excited and impatient, the lights dimmed and the noise became deafening with anticipation. Sharon smiled to herself, thinking that this must be what a rock show would be like, not that she'd ever been to one. The girls in the row behind her, all wearing matching warmup jackets with Denver Elites written on the back, were beside themselves. The dozen or so girls were squealing, screaming or just standing, waiting for the show to begin. Actually Sharon felt the same way, not that she'd ever actually squeal, of course.

The spotlights framed the entrances onto the arena floor, the noise ratcheted up and about twenty gymnasts, men and women, ran out in formation, starting choreographed warmup tumbling passes.

He was there, third in line, wearing a standard issue USA white gymnastics uniform, a singlet and long white gymnastics pants along with his mask, the only thing setting him apart from the others (aside from him being superior in every way to the rest).

God, he was even more beautiful in person; relaxed, happy, smiling easily, moving without any seeming effort and gracious to the crowd.

He was wonderful.

Warmup finished, they athletes took their places along the sidelines, sitting, chatting, waving to the crowd and waiting their turns to perform. Robin was less than ten feet away, smiling, laughing with a couple of the other men and occasionally turning to smile and nod (with some apparent embarrassment) when a group of fans would yell his name in unison.

He was the best there. He worked the audience, held them in the palm of his hand. He connected to his fans, he left the others in his wake.

He was modest, joyous in his own abilities and still made it all look easy—everything from his quad tuck dismount from the high bar to his way with autographs.

Walking back to his seat after his turn on the vaulting table, he met her eye and gave her a special smile, just for her, his eyes meeting hers and holding them for long seconds then giving her the smallest of winks. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she could feel herself blushing like one of the fourteen years olds behind her.

He was more wonderful than she'd imagined.

The rest of the exhibition was beyond her hopes. The other athletes were good, very good but Robin shone every time he took the floor and quietly stole attention when he was just sitting, waiting his turn. He was, he was...what was he? He was perfect.

It was the only word for him, from his body to what she could see of his face, his abilities, his humor, his easy confidence. He was everything she's imagined and more. When the show ended to a standing ovation and encores, she remained in her seat while the arena cleared, hoping against hope that he'd come out again, even if it were in his street clothes on his way to the meet and greet he'd promised attend.

Finally, with the hall almost cleared, she made her way to the reception room. The athletes, coaches and the members of the Olympic Committee would be there, making nice and hoping for some big contributions. In her fantasies she'd walk up to Robin, they'd speak, immediately (or perhaps with a growing realization) recognize that there was an undeniable connection and—age be damned—would end up having a quiet dinner together followed by, by, well by...everything.

Ridiculous, she knew that but wouldn't it be fun?

And then there he was, standing y the wall, laughing with a couple pf the other athletes, smiling and breaking off, moving to mingle when one of the officials touched his arm. He moved, talked with such an easy grace, confidence, maturity, aplomb. He was everything she knew he'd be.

"So, you're a fan of gymnastics?"

"Excuse me?"

"You like gymnastics? Are you a judge, a coach? 'Thirsty?"

She glanced at the man who'd stopped beside her, offering her a glass of white wine. "Thank you" She sipped the wine, it was a decent chardonnay and she actually had been thirsty.

"So, you're a coach?"

"Me, no, I just enjoy the sport and like to support our team when I can." Awkward silence. "And you?"

"Tom Haden, I'm the head men's coach." Pause "And you're...?"

"Sharon Kasem."

"Y'know, looking like you do, I thought that you were probably a gymnast yourself; you have that kind of body."

Get lost, loser. "Oh?"

"Absolutely, tight gluts, firm abs; you have the look, definitely."

"...Really?" She moved a few inches away, pulling his hand off her ass.

"Well, Sharon, may I have the pleasure of joining you for dinner? I know I'd enjoy the company and I suspect you wouldn't be disappointed, either." Jesus, the man was actually _leering_.

Only if hell froze over. "Thank you, but I'm afraid I've already promised someone." She saw Robin working his way in her direction, thank god, actually making eye contact with her. "I'm sorry, but if you'll excuse me..." She turned toward Robin, pretending they were old friends reconnecting.

He accepted her air kiss and almost hug while whispering, "Tom hitting on you? Don't be embarrassed or anything, he's pretty harmless. Obnoxious, but harmless." God, he was talking to her, just to _her _and he was even smiling right at _her,_ watching _her,_ paying attention to _her. _He'd seen what was happening and was helping her—oh god!

"Why, has he hit on you?" Oh cripes, she _didn't _just say that! But Robin laughed, really amused, he thought she was witty. "Has anyone ever filed charges against him? If I had a teenaged daughter I'd have his ass in a sling."

"He hits on every beautiful woman he meets. I guess it's a compliment in a sexist, backhanded kind of way and yes, he's fought a few complaints so he was forced to switch to coaching men to save what he had left of his career." He was still smiling right to her. "Would you have dinner with me, forget about him?" The formal dinner was ready, people were finding seats at the dozen or so round tables in the main ballroom.

She nodded, smiling in private elation. "I'd like that, thank you, as long as we're not at his table."

"No problem."

In fact, dinner wasn't included in the premium ticket she'd bought so she was secretly thrilled when Robin took her arm and led her out to the street. "Do you have a car here?"

"No, I cabbed over from my hotel, do you? But—don't you have to eat inside with the sponsors I thought that this was a fundraiser and you're a big part of the..."

"I know but I've had enough and the pledges have already been made so I can leave. And no, I cabbed too, so I don't have a car either. What do you feel like eating?"

"You're sure? Honestly, I don't want to cause any trouble for you or anything."

"You won't, they've made enough money off of me for one day. So, dinner?"

Oh god, anything, McDonald's. The Four Seasons. Pizza. "You're the one who's been working, I think you should decide."

"Chinese?" She could see a place down the block and it was the first thing that came to her mind.

"My Favorite."

"But really, are you sure this is all right? I thought that you were supposed to be eating with the officials or someone like that."

He smiled, completely charming. "This sounds like more fun."

Seated in a booth, Sharon soaked in the company, trying to seem cool while pinching herself. Robin was the perfect gentleman; clearly he'd been well brought up or well trained. Either that or he really was a natural candidate for sainthood. The boy was attentive to her, making sure she was didn't feel ignored, asking questions; where was she from, how long had she been interested in gymnastics and what did she do for a living. She did her best to be witty and entertaining.

Okay, so she failed. "I know that you probably have been told this since you were able to walk, but you're really a very good gymnast."

"Thanks but I'm really not a gymnast, I'm just an acrobat. There's a difference." He was matter of fact, not arrogant and he said it without making her feel stupid. He really was perfect.

"Oh? Tell me about it."

He paused for a moment, clearly wondering why he was having this conversation but, "An acrobat is usually someone who does moves and stunts like tumbling, tightrope walking, trapeze or that kind of thing, often as entertainment like in a circus and are often professionals, doing it for a career as long as they stay healthy. A gymnast performs routines, on specific equipment in competition, they have a stringent set of requirements and accepted form for all the tricks. They're almost always amateurs."

"I see."

"I was trained as an acrobat, the gymnastics is sort of a sideline for me."

"Which means that you're not an amateur? 'You were paid to be here?"

"Just expenses."

Subject closed. Fine, she understood; he had secrets. "Which do you prefer?"

"I dunno, they're both fun. Mostly I just like getting together with my friends so I do these exhibits when they come up and if it helps the team, that's okay, too." He sipped his water and looked at the menu. "What do you do?"

The conversation stayed general, Robin not giving anything personal away beyond the fact that he liked sweet and sour chicken. He seemed to have a veneer of good manners which hid whatever he might have really been thinking and she thought that it had to be that way. He was young, he'd been in the public eye since he was a child and it must be the only way he could keep any semblance of privacy for himself.

Poor thing.

"Does it ever bother you?" It just slipped out as he came back from the men's room.

"Excuse me?"

"All the attention and all the secrets you have to keep. Don't you ever want to, I don't know, run down the street shouting your real name or something?"

He looked down into his food, hiding a smile. "I don't, actually. And I do have friends I can be myself with, no holds barred, just hang out and be myself."

"Good. I'm glad you do." The waiter was laying the bill on the table by Sharon, assuming the older woman would be paying, He was right.

"Thanks for tonight, I really couldn't have handled another hour or two playing meet and greet with everyone." He looked toward the corner and a vacant cab. "I don't mean to cut this short but I'm more tired than I thought, so..."

"Of course, you've had a busy day." Sharon signaled the car and opened the back door as Robin gave a slight stumble. "C'mon, I'll get you where you need to be."

"...'No need..." He gently slumped against her, eyes closed, head on her shoulder.

"'Tired?" He nodded, his eyes closed. "The Brown, please." It wasn't far and they were there quickly. A bellhop helped her get Robin up to her suite, easily accepting the story that her son had a little too much wine at dinner.

She'd take care of him. He'd be just fine.

She'd make sure of that.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Ti

**Part Two**

She managed to get him to bed, removing his sneakers and his clothes down to his underwear before tucking him in. He was here and he needed her help.

He really had been sweet at dinner, rescuing her from that horrible coach but then it didn't surprise her that he'd be sensitive to someone else's situations. It was what he did, wasn't it?

Turning out the light and closing the bedroom door, she sat on the couch, the large, wall mounted TV on low, her own shoes off and her feet tucked up on the cushions. She hadn't planned this, she really hadn't but when he'd left the table to use the bathroom she was acting without really thinking. Taking the bottle from her purse, she quickly put four of her sleeping tablets in his coke, stirring and making sure they'd dissolved before he'd returned. In fact, she'd almost stopped him when he started to drink but then she, well, she just couldn't. He'd think she was terrible and be furious—and he'd be right. She simply couldn't bear the thought, she just couldn't.

Christ, what the hell was she going to do?

"I could just leave, let him wake up on his own. He's smart, he'd be able to deal with that, especially since he's not hurt or anything."

But, "Idiot. He's Robin, for the love of god. He'd figure out what happened inside of about half a minute and then I'm screwed."

"I could wait until he comes to the explain that I don't know what happened. We were just sitting thee having a nice meal, he got up, the waiter brought him afresh coke and then he passed out."

Yeah, right. Like _that _would work.

"He'd question the waiter, the manager, the owner and I'd be busted and screwed." Another thought; "Oh, fuck, my job, I'll lose my job!"

Maybe, just maybe if she let him wake up—Jesus, another problem. Four pills. He'd be out for hours and he must have someone waiting for him, wondering where he is, waiting for him to call or check in or something.

Quietly, she went into the bedroom and searched the pockets of his jeans, finding his cell phone and his wallet. Checking the battery, she was relieved to see that it was almost dead, needing a recharge. Good, She could just say that no calls came in and then spent a while playing with the thing to make sure the battery completely died.

The wallet sat on the coffee table and she stared at it. The things inside could tell her everything. If it was a normal teenager's wallet it would have his driver's license in it and that would have his real name and address. There would probably be some money and credit cards, maybe pictures of family and friends.

It could be a gold mine. No, no, no. She didn't mean money, though there was probably some in there but information; that kind of gold mine. And no, no, no again. She would never sell it or even give it away. Never. Absolutely not.

But to _know_...to be the only one aside from his family and a few close friends to really know, Wasn't Superman supposed to have a special interest in the boy, look out for him, make sure that he was all right? Maybe his phone number was there, it could be. And Batman. Of course there would be something about Batman, there had to be. Who was listed as an emergency contact? Where did he go to school? Were the pictures of the Teen Titans?

Gold mine.

Her hand itched to take the thing and open it. She could feel the pull of her arm wanting to stretch out, pick it up, go through it.

She'd have all the answers; his real name, where he lived, his family, maybe his girlfriend and god knew what else might be inside.

"I'd never tell anyone, not even him. I wouldn't. I'd never tell anyone and who knows, maybe I could help him somehow, I could be like a secret weapon. People do that for the heroes, don't they? I could be his."

Getting up, she went back into the bedroom. With just the light spilling in from the living room, she studied the boy's face. The black hair mussed in sleep, his mask still in place, a naked arm outside of the covers and a bare foot sticking out. He slept quietly, no snoring, no excess movements, just peacefully lying there.

The reality was more than she'd hoped.

His beauty, his confidence, his build, his kindness and generosity—it was all more than she'd imagined would be the reality. No on lives up to their hype, it's not possible. The reality was always less than the perception. Brad Pitt once talked about farting in bed. George Clooney seemed all right but had a touch of arrogance.

But Robin in the flesh was better than his PR. "Amazing."

Someone was probably waiting for his call, was waiting to hear how the show went, wanted to know when he'd be home. This couldn't go on very long. Robin was too important not to be missed from wherever and whomever he was supposed to touch base with.

She knew this was crazy but now that he was here she wasn't sure what to do. "If I just leave and let him wake up on his own he'll find out who the suite was rented to and will be able to track me down in minutes."

She stared at him while she thought, or tried to think, anyway. "If I wake him up—if I can—explain that it was a mistake or accident then he'll...yeah, _right_. Like anyone would believe that slipping him a mickey finn was an _accident_."

He shifted a little against the sheets and she caught herself wondering if he was a virgin. "That's not important. He's a child compared to you and you know it. That isn't what this is about. Not even close."

Besides, with his looks, high profile, abilities and fan base the odds of a seventeen or so year old young man, in this day and age being inexperienced was somewhere between nil and none. "He works _vice,_ f'God'ssake. Of _course_ he knows his way around."

Batman or his parents would be worried about him. He was probably supposed to call in so they knew he was okay, probably had to catch a flight back east sometime tonight or in the morning.

"Maybe if I told the authorities that he'd had too much wine and wasn't feeling well so I offered to let him come here to sleep it off." That could work, that was a maybe. Of course he'd have to either agree to play along or be convinced that was what happened.

He turned over onto his right side, the movement allowing the bedding to fall away, leaving his chest exposed. "God, he makes Michelangelo's David look like a troll."

"All right, that's _enough_. _Think._ You deal with problems every day and you do it damn well. Now figure this out!"

Ideas flashed through her mind, rejected before they could fully form.

Robin was lost and she helped him. No.

Robin was mugged and she...No.

Robin lost his plane ticket home. No. Stupid.

Robin was surrounded by a mob of groupies and couldn't get away. No. Even more stupid.

Robin mistook her for his mother/sister/aunt and...No. Even _more _stupid.

Every problem has a solution. It may not be the one you want but there's always something. This is what she did everyday. She solved problems no one else could, it was why she had the job she did, why she made the big bucks.

Okay.

Now Robin would wake up in a few hours, sometime in the morning and he probably wouldn't know or remember what happened or why he was in the hotel. All she had to do was come up with a plausible explanation. She'd tell him that she'd found him slumped somewhere.

He'd been in a car by the arena...no.

He'd been in a chair in the last row of seats and since she'd been one of the last ones out of the place she'd found him and...no.

She'd gone out for a nice dinner; wait, she'd been craving Chinese food and went to that little place down from the arena and there he was, eating by himself. She'd gone over—reluctantly because she didn't want to bother him—and spoken to him, congratulated him on his performance then noticed that he didn't seem to feel well. She'd been afraid that he was really sick and so had suggested that she help him to a doctor or ER or something but he'd insisted he was fine but when he'd gotten up to leave he'd had trouble walking. She'd followed because she was concerned, gotten him a cab but by then he was too out of it so she just brought him back to her hotel.

She knew it was a mistake and hoped he'd forgive her but he'd been so insistent that no one be informed because, because, well, because he didn't want any adverse publicity or to worry his family and said that he'd be fine if he could just get some sleep in peace and private.

Of course, she knew that she should have ignored his wishes and, at the very least have the hotel doctor check him but he's been so adamant and well, she should have called the doctor and she would have if she thought he was going into any kind of problem with his breathing or something.

Just thank god that he was all right and woke up without any complications.

Please, dear god, let him wake up without any complications.

He could take a shower, get back into his clothes and be on his way.

This was it, it could work and if he was as fuzzy from the pills as she was sometimes then he might even buy the whole thing. Now, all she had to do was let him sleep it off and then make sure he knew how worried and concerned she was about him in the morning. All she had to do was let it play out and be convincing.

Down in the lobby, hanging out by the front door, the bellhop was trying not to laugh out loud thinking about clean-cut, all-American, teeny-bopper and tween pin-up, heart-throb Robin upstairs right this minute with that semi-hot cougar. "You can't make this shit up."

In the bedroom Robin was dreaming about being locked inside a place he didn't recognize by a person or people he didn't know who wouldn't tell him how he'd gotten there or why.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

She heard some slight sounds of movement from the bedroom. It was almost eight in the morning and she'd been expecting it for a while now. She hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, half waiting for Batman or some other member of the Titans or the JLA to come crashing through either the door or the window. Taking the small cell phone she'd found in one of his jeans pockets last night, she checked; seven missed calls and eleven missed texts. Of course, of course people would be checking up on him, wondering how the exhibition went, asking if he was okay, when he'd be home and likely telling him that some criminal was on the loose and only he could possibly catch him/her.

Taking the thing, she purposely broke the thing, opening it and smashing the screen with her heel them silently opening the door of her suite and burying the remains in a napkin covering a dirty tray on the floor across the hall. Room service would toss it for her soon enough.

Then, tentatively but feigning confidence, she gently knocked on the door and went in.

He was still prone, his eyes bleary and not all the way opened. Miraculously, his mask was still on. His expression was a combination of confusion and sleepiness.

"Good morning. Are you feeling any better?" She tried for friendly concern.

"Where am I, who are you and why am I here?"

"You're in a hotel suite in Denver, I'm Sharon Kasem and I brought you here last night when you passed out at dinner."

He looked at her, evaluating her answer, saying nothing for a long number of seconds. "Why did I pass out and why did you bring me here instead of to a hospital?"

"I'm not sure, maybe you had too much to drink? And I thought that this would be a better choice, the papers and news people wouldn't ask questions if you're here."

"Wanna bet?" He lifted his hand a little shakily to check that his mask was still on and pulled himself to a semi-sitting position, checking with a hand down the sheets to make sure he wasn't nude. "So, who are you?"

"My name is..."

"I know your name. I asked who you are, why are you here, why were you the one to help me and why did I end up in what I presume to be your bed?"

"After the exhibition at the arena last night I was being hit on by one of the coaches..."

"Tom Haden?"

"Yes, him. Anyway, you rescued me and asked me to have dinner with you so we were at this little..."

"I asked you to have dinner in some restaurant? I was supposed to have dinner with the athletes and coaches so we could smooze contributors."

"I know and I said that but you said you'd had enough and so we went to this little place and after you went to the bathroom you sort of fell asleep."

He was giving her an appraising look and clearly wasn't buying what she was selling. "'Doesn't sound like me."

She gave him a steady look. She might be dealing with a semi naked hero after a, well, after a series of poor judgments on her part but she was still at least thirty years older with thirty years more experience dealing with situations. "That's what happened."

"Where's my phone?"

"Phone? I didn't find one when I..."

"When you stripped me and poured me into your bed? Uh-huh. Where is it?"

"I didn't see any phone."

He gave her a suspicious look, not admitting that he was notorious for losing his phones, going through at least a half dozen a year. "Where are my clothes and does anyone know about any of this? The Press, the gymnastics community, anyone eating at the restaurant?"

"The people in the restaurant might have seen something but I'm sure no one said anything to anyone." Of course they did and they both knew it. A picture of a drunk or drugged Robin being poured into a cab would be on the front page of ever tabloid and the lead story on every gossip blog on the planet. He'd be right up there with the latest drunk starlet barfing on Hollywood Boulevard.

Bruce would kill him. "I need to use the phone. In private, if you don't mind."Do you mind if I take a shower?"

"No, no, of course not, please go right ahe..." The bedroom door closed again."Do you mind if I take a shower?"

She left, closing the door behind her and sinking into the couch. "If he finds out he'll press charges and even if he doesn't, if it gets out, I'll be ruined." She called room service, ordered everything on the left side of the breakfast menu and large carafes of both tea and coffee. Robin was a teenaged boy—young man—he was bound to be hungry, especially since he really didn't get to eat his dinner.

"If he has any blood work done to find out why he passed put, I'm completely screwed."

She looked at the closed bedroom door, wondering what they were talking about in there.

"He has to be talking to either Batman or his parents; though maybe the rumors are true and Batman _is_ his father."

Either way, she was screwed. There was no way either of them would let her get away with this and, Jesus, how could she have been so impossibly stupid/naive/idiotic to thing that anything—_anything_—good could have ever come from this?

"All I wanted was a nice, private getaway to indulge myself without having to explain anything to anyone and not feel stupid and embarrassed about simply being impressed by Robin. What was so bad about that, what? I didn't mean for anything bad to happen, I didn't even really think that I'd even meet him, let alone...Oh, god."

Five minutes crept by, seven, nine, eighteen. The food arrived, the bellboy (a different one from last night) placed the contents of the loaded cart on a table by a sunny window.

Finally the door opened and he came out, dressed in last night's clothes but with his hair still wet. The smell of steam and soap came with him.

All she'd wanted to do was see Robin in person, all this—she'd never, ever thought that it would turn into this incredible _mess_. She was an intelligent, educated woman with a high-paying, responsible job. People respected her. People were afraid of her, her opinion was ought out. She wasn't nuts, f'godssake.

It was supposed to just be a fun weekend, an indulgence, some me time. How the hell had it turned it a sketch from Saturday Night Live?

Sleeping pills in his soda?

It was momentary insanity and she'd be paying for it, one way or another for the rest of her life. She'd be that idiot woman who'd tried to drug and date-rape poor, semi-innocent, underage Robin.

'No way out, no way out' kept repeating in her head like a Buddhist chant. If this wasn't so horrifying it would be funny. All it would take was a simple blood or urine test and she'd be indited and nailed to the wall by any judge or jury in the country. It was a no-brainer.

No way out.

"Do you mind? I'm pretty hungry."

She gestured to the food, "Of course. May I join you?"

"It's your room." Luckily he said it with a hint of a smile, allowing her stomach to unclench enough to try to get something down.

"Everything all right with...I mean, at home or wherever you called?"

"Fine." he swallowed a glass of juice. "I have to get my stuff from my own hotel and I'm supposed to be on a flight in about two hours but I need to find out what really happened last night before I go."

Oh god. "Of course you do."

"I've called the hotel doctor to take blood samples for testing; he should be here in a few minutes."

Oh god. "Do you have any thoughts about what might have happened?"

"I'm not sick so obviously it was something external. Since I was the only one affected, it was probably something either at the arena or in my food. It shouldn't be too hard to isolate it."

"And then?"

"And then I'll deal with it. If it was something benign, accidental, it has to be corrected so no one else is exposed and if it was something else, then I'll find out who and why."

Oh god. "But you must have some idea of what happened."

"Of course I do."

Oh god. There was an awkward silence for several long moments. Finally," You don't think _I _had anything to do with you're getting sick, do you?"

He regarded her, choosing his words. "If I did we'd be down at the local precinct house right now."

"That's something, anyway." Unless he was lying.

He smiled at her relief as there was a knock on the door. The hotel doctor was there to take blood and urine samples to see what, if anything might show up.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

The doctor was professional and quick, samples taken, he told Robin that the results would available within twenty-four hours, at least the preliminary ones anyway.

"So shouldn't you be calling your parents or someone, let them know that you're all right?"

"I spoke with Batman a little while ago."

"I know that; I meant your family..." Sharon broke off. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

"No, but it's okay; I don't have to call anyone else."

She wondered at that, there were a lot of possibilities but knew she wasn't supposed to go there—no one was supposed to go there. "Do you have to wait for the results or can you leave to go back east now?"

He shrugged, obviously restless and uncomfortable sitting around a hotel room. He needed to be outside, moving, doing something. "They can let me know by fax or e-mail or something but I'd like to see this thing through myself. It kinda personal, y'know?" She nodded. "But do you have to get to the airport or something? You really don't have to wait around just to keep me company."

"'You trying to get rid of me? Maybe have a better offer?" He actually blushed, it was adorable though she knew it was just a reaction to her slightly suggestion remark and nothing more. Her mind switched back to it's usual analytical state and she knew, suddenly understood that he needed to solve this, find out who was trying to hurt him. Potentially kill him. Who, why and how could he prevent it happening again.

Of course, play time was over and he'd switched into professional mode. She'd do the same. He had a case, a problem to solve and that was now his first and likely only priority. She had the distinct impression that he was similar to a cat tired of toying with it's prey.

"What do you think happened?" She'd dropped any act, any pretense but tried for a few moments to gather her thoughts. She wanted to know what was going to happen now, happen to her, that is.

"I was drugged by an amateur. I don't think there was anything malicious about it, though I could be wrong about that. I think it was someone who simply saw an opportunity and took it, possibly without any planning or forethought. I suspect it was someone who might have wanted to meet me, get to know me to some degree and probably didn't have any plans to harm me."

He was looking at her calmly as he spoke, making it obvious he knew it was her, that she wasn't any real danger to him and scaring the hell out of her.

"So what do you plan to do about it?"

"Nothing until I get those test results back. Meanwhile, I have to be back in Gotham tonight so I'll either turn the case over to the Denver police or follow it myself long-distance."

Jesus. "I see." Talk about living with an anvil hanging over your head.

"And you'll be going back to wherever it is you live?"

"Yes, Boston." They exchanged a look of understanding. She'd go home, he'd do the same and he'd never hear from her again. Period. Something had changed in the room, in the feeling in the air. They'd come to an understanding and had accepted one another's acceptance without the need to hash out details. She understood the new rules, knew there was no negotiations and no real choice. There wouldn't be any more trouble, at least not from her. She glanced at the clock. "You didn't touch any of that food I ordered for you."

"'Sorry."

"Let me at least get you some lunch. 'You haven't eaten since last night, you must be hungry."

"You're serious?"

"Well, yes. Of course. It's the least I can do. I mean..."

He gave a half laugh. "This is a first; sure, okay. Why not, right?" He was a cross between disbelieving, bemused and suspicious. "Just lunch, right?"

She was getting a bit annoyed. He had her dead to rights; he knew and she knew he knew. There was no reason to be snotty about it. "Of course just lunch. I wasn't planing on jumping you, you know."

"What were you planning?"

"Oh, f'the love of—I was planning a pleasant weekend in Denver, relaxing, spending some time on my own to do some shopping, eating some good meals and watching your exhibition. That's it—take it or leave it." He just watched her, almost as if she were putting on a private performance just for him. "What?"

"Nothing, just trying to decide if you''re real, naïve, telling the truth or the best actress I've seen in a long time."

She didn't deign to address that and resisted the prickle of annoyance at his arrogance; if she'd suspected this side of him, she hadn't expected to encounter it. "So, did you want lunch or not?"

"Thanks but I have to get to the airport."

She nodded, not surprised. "What happens now?"

"I go home, I assume you do the same."

"That's it?"

He almost had a smile on his face along with a slight touch of confusion. "Why, what did you expect?"

"I'm not sure, something, I guess."

He half-shrugged. "You do know that I don't work alone—he might not be as understanding as I am."

"Are you threatening me?" The gall of the boy.

"No, just giving you a head's up, I guess. 'Stating facts."

Three weeks later, the trip to Denver tucked away as a good/bad memory/experience, Sharon was back to work, back to her usual professional, no-nonsense self and living her life the way she had been. "Right, Misty? You and me tonight, just the way we like it." Yes, she was lying but if she said it enough it might become true.

She'd thought about that weekend a lot, a day hadn't gone by without it occupying at least an hour of her thoughts. Okay, maybe not all at once, but on and off through the day. She'd picture the sight of Robin flying through his routines, the look on his face when he heard the screaming roar of ten or fifteen thousand people cheering him, the happiness, pride and embarrassment as he ducked his head. Smiling as he tossed a wave. His kindness when he rescued her from that slimy coach hitting on her. His sweetness when he offered to take her away from all that for a private dinner to allow her to compose herself and shake off that horrible man's advances.

"It would have been nice if we'd..." But she didn't let her thoughts go there. Always (well almost always) stopping them from their natural conclusion. "No, he's still a baby, still a teenager and even if I'd really wanted to go there with him, it would have been wrong and why would _he_ ever think about _me _like _that_? Idiot—stop being stupid."

Of course, telling her mind to get out of the gutter and having it cooperate were two different things. Next she'd insist that wasn't the way she thought about him. It wasn't. Really, it wasn't. Like she had told herself for years, she admired him aesthetically, was impressed by his intelligence, compassion, dedication and all of that.

Really.

Back at the office Jean asked her her weekend had gone and been given the barest bones and almost no details. "It was great, just what I needed; time alone with no phones ringing, no one asking questions and time for myself—perfect!"

"So do you want me to arrange that dinner with George we were talking about before you left? C'mon, you've been putting it off since you got back and he's really sweet. I think you two will absolutely hit it off. I'll eve make it a double date to take off the pressure—Tom said he's been wanting to try that new Japanese place over that just opened. Saturday?"

"Saturday would be fine." Whatever. It was easier to agree than to find an excuse. Meanwhile she could spent this evening reading through People and Superheroes Weekly; Robin was on the cover of both and featured in the lead stories. "Okay, Jeannie, I have to get through this report; 'later. Oh, and could you send my assistant in, please?"

She knew she'd never meet him again, that what they'd shared—if shared was the word to use—would never happen again. It was a once in a lifetime thing. It was okay. It was fine and more than she thought she'd have. 'Of such things dreams are made' and she had plenty of dreams to keep her going.

In Wayne Manor Dick sat at his usual place for breakfast. It was Sunday morning, relatively a kickback time, at least for the Manor's residents. It was already eight o'clock, a late start for them.

"What happened in Denver, why did you cut out on the dinner?"

Dick picked up a piece of bacon; crispy, just the way he liked it. "Tom was hitting on one of the high rollers from the audience. I took her out instead, 'calmed her down."

Bruce was already distracted by some article in the Gotham Times. "...Good."

Dick turned his attention to his food. 'No need to waste Bruce's time with unimportant details. The situation was contained.

Sharon continued to work her usual eighty hours a week, making time go by quickly. She stayed up on what Robin—later Nightwing—was doing, how his career was going, rejoicing over the highs and worrying about the lows. She still bought the magazines and books about him, dusted the shelf holding her mementos and souvenirs.

Periodically she'd come home to find something subtly different than it had been that morning or the night before. A book would be slightly out of place, a knick knack would be out of place, her computer would feel warm, as though it had been in recent use. Nothing was ever missing, there was never a note or an explanation of who or how they'd gotten inside.

She knew he was just checking.

5/18/11


End file.
